I'll Be Home for Christmas
by Tres Mechante
Summary: They say home is where the heart is. But what if you no longer have a heart? Vignette.


**Title:** I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Author:** Très Méchante

**Characters/Pairing:** Nikita; Nikita/Michael angst

**Summary: **They say home is where the heart is. But what if you no longer have a heart? Vignette.

**Rating:** Teen

**Spoilers: **None obvious.

**Word Count:** approx. 900 words

**Warning: **None.

**Disclaimer: **Well, the story is mine, but the characters, most assuredly, are not. If they were, Nikita and Michael would be happy.

**Archive:** Only with permission.

**Inspired by title:** "I'll Be Home For Christmas" by Peabo Bryson & Roberta Flack

* * *

Nikita smiled politely at the elderly neighbour who wished her a merry Christmas as she walked by, and quickly entered her flat. Merry was not the word she would use to describe Christmas.

She tossed her keys on the side table and idly sorted her mail – all the bills, correspondence and other minutiae that made up the life of her alter-ego. What would dear old Mr. Poploski think if he knew the nice young designer who traveled made her living by dealing in death rather than high fashion.

Flyers went into the bin, and the bills left in an unopened pile next to several greeting cards that were dutifully lined up on the side table. Nikita deliberately did not look at the shelf where the camera was hidden.

After years of proving herself, sacrificing her heart and soul to gain bits of freedom, she was back where she had started, living in a virtual fishbowl. She silently cursed the name of Michael Samuel. She had been wooed by him, and then played for a fool. She had been loved – or perhaps not – and then abandoned when he disappeared with his son. Now, Section scrutinized her every move, looking for clues to Michael's location, looking for anything that would prove her in some way guilty along with him.

Well, they could watch her until the end of time, but would find nothing – most likely, she knew even less than Section.

Nikita tossed her jacket over the coat tree, put the kettle on to boil, and turned on the stereo before moving up to her bedroom. Surveillance cameras were here, too, but at least she was allowed the dignity of pulling a thin curtain across a shallow alcove for privacy while she changed. This small concession was all that was given to her, a token of goodwill for her so-called faithful service to Section One.

While Nikita's thoughts were bitter and jumbled, her actions remained smooth and calm, never betraying her turmoil. She began to unfasten her clothing as she crossed the room, but did not remove them until she had stepped into her small illusion of privacy. She picked up her robe and momentarily stilled before quickly resuming her movements. A small white box, not more than four inches in height or width, sat on the padded stool where she had tossed her robe a few days ago before leaving on assignment.

Her mind worked furiously while she changed, trying to decide if this was some sort of test. While it was possibly trap, her instincts urged her to conceal the box. Casually, using every bit of training she had every received, she bundled up her clothes with the mysterious box hidden underneath, tossed everything into the hamper. She then picked up the hamper and carried it down to her small laundry room.

The kettle whistle drew her back to the kitchen, where she prepared her tea. While it steeped, she went back to start the laundry. There was a small blind spot here, a very narrow haven from the prying of electronic eyes. Nikita rarely used it, fearful of having it taken away.

Amidst the movements of loading the washer, she carefully opened the box and pulled out the contents. Shock held her immobile for a little too long, and when she broke free of her paralysis, her movements were jerky and anything but calm.

Nikita put the object on the hidden shelf, started the washing machine and went to retrieve her cup of tea. No matter how hard she tried, the trembling of her hands would not still, and her tea sloshed over the side of her cup as she walked into the living room. Her tremors only eased once she had settled into her favourite chair and was wrapped in the soft afghan – a gift from Mrs. Sokoloski from downstairs.

She closed her eyes, but had no trouble seeing once again the unexpected gift. Or, perhaps it was a curse. Damn Michael. Damn him to Hell.

Inside the box had been a delicate snow globe. Inside was a family portrait – she had no doubt it was a family – of a dark-haired man, a blonde woman and a laughing boy held in the man's arms, but reaching out for the woman. Written in the snowy ground inside the globe had been a single word: Soon.

How Michael had gotten in, she had not idea, but she was dead certain it was him and not some trap set by Section.

Carefully sipping her tea, fighting back tears, Nikita felt the most awful pain mid-chest as love battled hate, and hope warred with despair. She yearned to be, really ibe/i with Michael and Adam, to be a family, yet she could not stop wishing he had stayed away, left her to the half-life she had learned to live.

Nikita barely bit back a sob. Dear heaven, Michael had inot/i abandoned her and was coming for her, but she knew Section would never left them go, not in this life. And when they found that little snow globe during one of the random apartment searches…

She resolutely halted that line of thought. It was Christmas Eve, and for just a little while, she would dream of her dark-haired lover and their beloved child. Section might be able to control her body, but they could not – would not! – touch her heart.

Her eyes drifted to the snowflakes dancing in the streetlights just beyond the window, and she waited.

**-end-**


End file.
